


Burn Out

by kyrilu



Series: Flite [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Child Death, Codependency, Death References, Dubious Morality, Guilt, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s all about giving and taking.</p><p>(And receiving, too.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is a blatant angstfest. This is a bloody soap opera. I don't even know. *throws up hands*
> 
> As noted before, the cracky alternate title to this fic is 'Tony Stark Loves Everybody But No One Loves Him Back'. So enjoy, I suppose.
> 
> Reading 'Arrival of the Birds' is recommended to understand this installment. (It's actually betaed too, so.)

Tony thinks he can feel the shadow on his back when he puts his suit on. The gears whir in place, JARVIS droning statistics, and Tony thinks: _There is something behind me._

He turns, but it’s just New York. Just the city in all its apocalyptic ruin that could’ve come straight out of a film. No one’s here -- it’s a taped-off area, after all, buildings sagging against each other and the Stark name plastered on the warning signs.

“Note to self,” Tony says, “don’t eat too many donuts for breakfast.” He shakes his head and takes off; he can already feel the strain of metal on his back and in his hands.

 

*

 

The first body is a twenty-something woman. Plain looking girl, could’ve been one of his fans that showed up at his parties, trying to meet the famous Tony Stark. He probably would have slept with her, once upon a time.

“Probably got caught during the mayhem,” Agent Hills says, when Tony reports in. “It was the after work rush hour. Leave the casualty there, Stark. We’ll pick her up soon.”

“Gotcha,” Tony says, and he parts the concrete stone off of her stomach. “And that’s all for today, right? I’ll send you a tape of my observations later. Going to ditch now.” Then he shuts the connection off before she can respond.

The woman has a badge on her chest: Katherine M. Whitefield, temp. He carefully notes the time, date, and composition of her body into his audio notes, just in case S.H.I.E.L.D. might need it.

He calls Bruce on the way home, arms outstretched in front of him and the sky streaking past him. “Hamburgers, Bruce,” he says, JARVIS’ list panning out in front of him. “And milkshakes, for dinner. But how’s your work progressing?”

“I hit a bit of a brick wall,” Bruce confesses. His words are half-muffled: he’s probably talking on speaker phone. Tony can hear the rattle of test tubes, clinking glass, in the background. “Tony, I...I don’t think there’s an easy formula for controlling the Hulk.”

Tony makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t stress it, Bruce. Maybe take a break from all this gamma ray stuff. Eat a burger with me. I won’t mind trying my hand in your field, actually.”

“To get an opportunity to show off, right?” Bruce says, but he sounds appreciative, despite the teasing edge of his voice. “Sure. I wouldn’t mind giving you a peek of my notes.”

“And I’d get to see your sexy, sexy brain at work,” Tony purrs, and receives a yelp over the line in response. “Ha. That was adorable. _You_ are utterly adorable. Why don’t we talk over video cam? ‘Cause I bet you’re blushing. JARVIS, is he blushing?”

“Shut up, Tony.”

“Sir, did you wish for me to answer your question?”

Bruce says, and there’s humor in his voice, “No, but thank you, JARVIS.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll call off the big bad artificial intelligence. But we’re on tonight, right? Burgers. Shakes.”

“I’m going to have to find a way to owe you for all of this,” Bruce says. A rasp of his breath flickers into Tony’s ears. “You’ve given me my own room, my own lab, and my meals.”

“I’m your motherfucking pimp,” Tony agrees. He ends the conversation there, the surprised bark of Bruce’s laughter echoing in his ears.

 

*

 

“How long do you think clean up’s going to take?”

Tony takes a noisy slurp from his shake. “Lots of time, I suppose. Alien invasions, amirite?”

Bruce makes a furrowed expression, his brow wrinkled in thought. “At least S.H.I.E.L.D.’s helping you. I wish I could give you a hand there, but. You know.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “It’s okay. I got it covered. And are you really not eating your fries?” He pokes a finger at Bruce’s half-finished meal. “Garlic fries, Bruce.”

Bruce scowls. “Stop fixating on my food, Tony.”

“Hmm, maybe. So. What else? Has my tower awed you yet with its amazing architectural and modern achievements of humankind?”

“It’s certainly something,” Bruce admits.

Tony grins. “Even those tabloid reporters who talk trash about me say that once they get a tour of the place. I can recite you one from memory: _Even though Stark is a polarizing figure, his industry's headquarters is a center of technological growth and futuristic innovation. He may have an unsavory reputation, but his mark on the world is one to behold._ ” He stops to take a breath. “Loved that one. The reporter absolutely _loathed_ me, but I wanted to frame that quote up on the wall, because _take that_ , I am still awesome.”

“But you didn’t frame it,” Bruce says. He shakes his head.

“Because Pepper,” Tony says. “And, well. Obie. Obadiah Stane. Who is another long story entirely, actually. But I’m pretty sure you’ve watched that in the news.” His eyes go down to his milkshake, but he watches Bruce under his eyelids, curious.

“I heard,” Bruce says, eventually, after two minutes of silence. “Afghanistan. Jericho. The whole mess.”

“I heard, too,” Tony counters, and it’s like he’s putting on the Iron Man suit again, pulling the gold red _armor_ over his eyes, over his chest. “Harlem. General Ross. Blonsky. Aren’t we a pair.”

He tips his milkshake again Bruce’s: _cheers_.

A grim smile from Bruce. “You really have to stop hacking into S.H.I.E.L.D. files, Tony.”

“You could tell?” Tony says.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can tell.” Bruce sighs, leans over to steal a sip of Tony’s shake. “You were right. The chocolate does taste better.”

Abruptly, Tony stands, his chair squeaking behind him. “Wanna pack up for tonight? Order some food for the others, maybe? Don’t order any strawberry milkshakes -- it’d be hell if Pepper accidentally took one.”

“All right,” Bruce says. There is a side-glance cast his way, careful, searching, and Tony barely stops himself from reaching over, from placing a hand over Bruce’s eyes for no reason at all.

(Except maybe to shield himself from the beast inside, but he’s not scared of that big jolly green giant, not really. Just the idea of him.)

 

 

*

 

It’s pretty late. He had been squinting at Bruce’s notes for hours, scrawled in neat, small print, trying to wrap his head around gamma rays and the Hulk. Despite his earlier boasts, he realizes, this shit is _hard_ , and Bruce is an honest-to-god genius.

“Save a copy of Bruce’s notes for me, will ya, JARVIS?” Tony asks. He holds the papers out to a scanner and it hums, photographing the words and diagrams. The paper is warm to his touch when he lifts it out, and he places them gently down on a table.

He stumbles into bed: fancy sheets and tastefully draped canopy; it’s a rather elegant bed. And pretty big. Tony stretches across the empty space -- _“I can fit three girls into here”_ he’d bragged to Pepper once -- and lets out a gust of air, breathing.

He’s thinking of Bruce, of that monster lurking under those eyes, and then there’s that shadow curling on the curve of his back -- dark, enveloping. He’s thinking of that woman under the rubble, her hair a shade close to Pepper’s, a medical allergy bracelet on her wrist: maybe she was allergic to strawberries, too?

“Stark,” Tony hears someone say. “Your core, here. It is of a unique metal. How... _interesting_.”

And something’s pressing and pressing and pressing, drawing the blue out of him, and the low voice quietly tells him, “The earth is shaking, human. Not here. But in a wretched cave and an emerald snake, and a woman tipping the bowl.”

“ _What_ \--?”

“Man of Iron. Metalsmith,” and there’s a finger on his chin, and Tony stares at bright green eyes, reeling at the sight of the fucking _god,_ and he’s tired, and this must be some kinda crazy nightmare--

His chest hurts so fucking much. He’s _drained_ , that’s the word for it, and he’s slipping, slipping into darkness or sleep or unconsciousness.

“I’m not real,” Loki says (reassuringly?) into his ears. “Merely an apparition, Stark.”

 

*

 

The next body is a middle-aged police officer. Balding, slightly overweight. Could be someone who pulled Tony over for driving drunk, could be someone who arrested Tony for indecent public behavior, who the fuck knows. Tony straightens the guy’s cap, the gold tip glinting in the morning sun, and tries to draw connections.

The body after that is a thirty-year-old janitor. The body after that is a seventy-year-old elderly woman. After that it’s two firefighters, trapped in the same building, buried under a burnt door way. After that it’s a fuck load of kids, teenagers mixed in with a handful of adults.

Bruce pries his suit off him that day. His hands are careful as they run along the cracks and crevices, taking the red and gold parts off piece by piece. Tony feels himself fall against Bruce’s weight, and he says cheerfully, “You wanted cheesecake with me tonight, right?”

He can sense the shadow tightening around him.

 _Bruce Bruce Bruce_ , he thinks to himself.

 

*

 

“You’re going to need a core,” Loki says, brushing a finger across Tony’s chest. “You know that you can’t last longer.” He says, “What are you going to do?”

The answer is obvious: “Make something”

Loki’s eyes are hungry. “Stark. Show me.”

In reply Tony flicks out his fingers, and the screens spiral across the air. “There. Isn’t she a beaut? That part over there is made of vibranium, y’know, the stuff that’s already in here. And also Cap’s shield. That part over there is the battery, the electricity generator that’ll keep my heart healthy.”

Loki reaches out, an insubstantial ghost, and his long pale fingers splay over the display like a branching cobweb. “And what function does this section perform?”

“It’s a cooler thing, to make sure that the battery doesn’t overheat from too much use.”

“I see,” Loki murmurs. “I know spells that carry out a similar goal. Your technology is vastly inferior to magic, but there is some overlap.”

“Vastly inferior, my ass,” Tony snorts, but his eyes are lit up with curiosity. “If you’re going to keep hanging out here and draining my damn heart, at least explain to me about your flashy shit.”

“Very well,” Loki says, with a nearly imperceptible shrug. He settles down onto Tony’s bed, his form shifting opaque and dark dark dark, his hair a mess of black fanned on the white sheets. “Lie with me, Stark,” he says, his eyes dancing, and Tony dims the lights upon request.

From his fingers, Loki scrawls spells and enchantments in neon-bright light on the canvas of the ceiling. His face is a muted emerald hue from the glow; Tony looks at the soft curves of Loki’s face and he really doesn’t think straight, he really doesn’t think at all.

 

*

 

“You mortals grieve so openly,” Loki says when Tony listens to his own voice describing the victims. He’d been listening to the recordings from a pair of earbuds, and Loki had plucked one out of his ears and stuck it into his own, eyes lighting up in recognition.

“More like narcissism,” Tony says, snatching the earbud back. “Hearing my own gorgeous voice, y’know. I need to edit these for S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s not -- not grieving or whatever shit you’re hinting at.” He sticks the earbud back into his ear. “And you know that they’re yours.”

“Indeed,” Loki says. “Slain blood of my war. Pity that your S.H.I.E.L.D. has to send a lone soldier to clean it all up.”

“Fuck you,” Tony says quietly. “You know, there were some kids. Children.”

Loki looks pleased at Tony’s reaction. “Such as any war, Stark. Jotunheim lost its crown prince, a mere infant, during the last great war. It was Odin himself who did the deed. Your people are no exception.”

“Liar,” Tony says, because he knows the story. Thor told them on shawarma night, when they ditched the place for a bar, where he had rambled and blubbered and drank more than Tony. “That was you. Nice try, though. And it’s not like _you_ care about innocent people getting killed, anyway.”

“Wars are for legends and legacies,” Loki says, with a shrug. “Take self-sacrifice. Among humans....it is _interesting_. The Norse had a sense of it, once upon a time.”

“Me?” Tony says flatly. “I’m no martyr, oh-grand-scholar. I flew into a portal, threw a missile, and the day is saved, yay. Sure, there was a risk” -- _the Hulk catches him from the sky, and he wakes up, and instinctively turns for Bruce_ \-- “but, hey, I’m a survivor. I seem to almost die a lot, frankly.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Fuck you,” Tony says again, but with less heat. Loki _was_ directly responsible for one of those occasions. Actually -- _two_ , Tony corrects, staring down at his arc reactor. “Why are you even here?” he says, finally.

Loki smirks. Pulls the earbuds from Tony’s ears, and drags a finger on his arc reactor. “Here,” he says. “And why do you keep me?”

“I need entertainment,” Tony says nonchalantly.

Then: Loki half-doubles over. Another one of his fits from that poison, his punishment. Tony twists away from Loki’s grasp, and listens to a choked sound, swiftly repressed, but still audible.

“One of those days, huh?”

“ _Stark_ ,” Loki snarls.

“Say ‘please.’”

“You insufferable creature,” Loki hisses.

Tony grins, and lets himself be pulled down on his bed, a hand splayed out on his chest and _taking._

 

*

 

“She told me that I was a liability in battle,” Bruce says, and he sounds more amused than everything. He rubs the back of his head, and grins. “And, she, well. Offered to teach me some stuff in person.”

“Not sending the trained professionals to have a go at you?”

Bruce lowers his voice, then. “Ever since the entire S.H.I.E.L.D. bureaucratic disaster, Fury’s only allowed certain agents to directly deal with us. Clint, Natasha, Hill, maybe a few others. He’s being cautious.”

“Wise man,” Tony says roughly; it’s comforting to know that Fury’s on their side, sort of.

“I do know some jiu-jitsu,” Bruce says, hand cupped his chin as a television commercial finishes, and the show resumes. “But mostly the breathing techniques. For the other guy.”

“I figured you’d be more of the pacifist type, frankly.”

“I was out in the big, wide world for quite a while, Tony,” Bruce says.

Self-consciously, Tony realizes that their knees are brushing. _Shit._ Tony holds his breath; he exhales it in a rush.

“You were,” Tony acknowledges. “Hey. Is it alright if I watch you spar? Gotta see if your moves are good, Bruce.” He crooks a small smile towards Bruce’s direction. “I can hold up scorecards and wolf whistle when your muscles glint in the sunlight, you think?”

“I don’t have muscles,” Bruce says with a laughing scowl, and Tony laughs. “But it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Cool,” Tony says. He moves his knee away, swiftly.

 

*

 

“He’s actually not that bad,” Pepper says thoughtfully, as Bruce struggles to grapple onto Agent Hill, his arms locking around her. Hill, of course, uses his weight against him, and flips the man over, heaving him unto the mat. It’s almost eerily similar to Natasha and Happy’s brawl that long while ago.

“Let’s try this again,” Hill says to him; she doesn’t offer Bruce a hand, but Bruce easily pulls himself up, all ready for round two.

“That’s my boy!” Tony shouts.

Bruce turns to grin, but Hill throws a kick his way, and the match begins.

“Right,” Tony says to Pepper, continuing the conversation. “And did you see his eyes? Not a single shade of green, Pep, what d’you think of that?”

Pepper rolls her eyes. “Anthony E. Stark, personal fanboy of Doctor Bruce Banner, who would’ve thought?” She moves her arm over to squeeze around Tony’s shoulder, and Tony leans back into the thin limb, smiling.

His smile fades when he happens to look up, and there’s Clint Barton overlooking the gym on the observation balcony. He’s leaning over Romanoff, his gaze flickering back and forth from the practice fight and to her. Tony takes in the way his fingers part a strand of her hair, so that he could press his mouth to the shell of her ear, whispering.

“Tony,” Pepper says, her arm tightening around him.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts. “Yeah?”

“You’re a little hopeless, you know that?”

Tony snorts. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But. So. How’s your progress with Hill?” He tilts her head towards her; she’s really fucking _fast_ , but he has no idea what kind of martial arts _she’s_ using. It’s not Brazilian jiu-jitsu, which Bruce is employing. It’s not just merely the simple hand-to-hand combat that soldiers use. It’s--

“Kickboxing,” Pepper says quietly. “And I don’t know, Tony. She can be--” Her mouth moves to form the word _cold_ , but then Pepper shakes her head. “Never mind.”

_cold_

He links his arm around her, too. They’re shoulder to shoulder, side to side, and Bruce and Hill continue sparring, the rap of feet on mats, fists to body, echoing across the room.

 

*

 

Tony wanders, blindly, into the tower kitchenette. He needs coffee. Badly. He’d been up for hours, modifying his new and improved arc reactor, and it finally was ready to be inserted. He calls JARVIS for the lights, but then he realizes that somebody’s already there.

“Romanoff,” he greets, blinking blearily.

“Morning,” she says; she’s stationed near the coffee machine, waiting.

 _It’s morning already, huh_ , Tony thinks, but he’s unsurprised, used to pulling all-nighters. “You could’ve asked for my bots to make some, y’know,” Tony says, nodding up at JARVIS.

Romanoff, he notices, is dressed. A black leather jacket, dark jeans, red blouse. He would’ve leered at her, once upon a time, but he doesn’t now.

“No, it’s all right,” Romanoff replies, “I’m not particularly fond of the blend that they make.”

“Mind if I try it, then?” Tony asks, an eyebrow quirked. Hell, the blend he’s got is _expensive_ shit, but he doesn’t mind exploring his tastes.

A shrug, which Tony takes as a _yes_.

The coffee smell really good, actually, and Tony breathes, taking in the scent. It’s..nice. Romanoff’s taking out thermoses -- _one, two, three_ , Tony counts them -- and then she reaches in the cupboards for a mug. “Is this enough?” she asks, holding the mug out towards him. “Or would you like two?”

“No, it’s fine,” Tony says. He’d actually rather like two, but. Then there wouldn’t be enough for everyone; he could always make some for himself, anyway. “Thanks. Romanoff.”

She pours the coffee inside the mug, and Tony accepts it, gulping it down as quickly as he can, trying not to burn himself. The dark brown liquid sears his tongue nevertheless, but he can already feel the caffeine going to his head. It _is_ better than his blend, Tony realizes. Her coffee has a muted, subtle taste that stays in his mouth, warm and easy.

After a few minutes of silence, Tony says, “Going anywhere?”

“Yes,” Romanoff says. He watches her tilt the coffee pot’s steaming contents into the thermoses, screwing the lids on each with practiced movements.

“You can borrow one of my cars,” Tony volunteers. “Just call for JARVIS, and he’ll help you out. If this is a mission or something, I recommend one of my gadget-y, illegally modified superfast cars.” He grins at her, lopsided.

“Thanks,” she says, and Tony turns to return to his workshop. Romanoff catches his arm and says, “You’re making Clint’s nest,” with something like gratitude and humor.

“I am,” he says. “Bruce asked for you guys. And some weapon shit. ‘Cause you _do_ need a mechanic and inventor for those. Don’t make Bruce do all of it.”

(For _them_ , Bruce had requested. They were in Tony’s limo, exhausted after a stupid battle with Doombots. Sunk into soft seats, knees touching just _so_ again.)

“The coffee ready, Nat? Awesome,” a low voice says, and Barton walks into the room. He glances over at Tony, and grins. “You tried it, Stark?”

“It’s delicious,” Tony says, flashing a smile. “You are one lucky guy, Barton.” _He is, too_ , hangs unspoken on his lips. “Good luck at wherever the hell you guys are going.”

Clint slips two packets of sugar on top of Tony’s mug, balancing them there. “Just in case,” he says.

Natasha’s hand is still on Tony’s forearm. Her fingers are warm from the coffee, and her eyes are warm, too, and Tony smiles, slipping off, his mug in hand.

Once upon a time, huh?

 

 

*

 

“Hey, Rhodey,” he says into his cellphone, spinning around in a desk chair. “How’s tricks?”

There’s a wry laugh on the other side of the line. “I should be asking you, Tony. You’re the one living with Captain America and all those other big names, aren’t you?”

“Especially with the esteemed Iron Man,” Tony says, with a sage nod. “You’re stopping by soon to lick his boots, right? New and improved boots, mind you, because technological updates. Very important.”

“I am not licking _anyone’s_ boots, Tony!”

“Even not Captain America’s? I swear, one day I’ll tell Rogers that the great and mighty Colonel Rhodes, friend of Tony Stark, was a fanboy back in his college days. Used to have those vintage t-shirt things.”

Rhodey laughs. “Don’t be bent on humiliating me before America’s golden boy.”

“Mm, I won’t. Well, maybe. But,” Tony adds, “I was serious about that question there. When are you coming back from military duty, you?”

“Soon, I think,” Rhodey says. “Introduce me to your new pals when I come back, okay?”

“I was planning to,” Tony replies. “Keep talking to me, Rhodey, I’m _bored._ ”

“It’s the middle of the day in New York now, though, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be working?” Rhodey’s voice is reprimanding, reminiscent of the times he’d admonished Tony in the past, cleaning up after his messes. Whether it was stopping him from getting distracted from paperwork or inventions or well-meaning people like Pepper (..and Obie).

Tony wrinkles his nose. “Nah, finished clean up of New York. It was a lot of work, so I think Pepper convinced the company to give me a break.” He stretches his arms, keeping the cellphone cupped at his shoulder and cheek. “So I got nothing to do.”

On the other side of the line, he hears murmured words, and Rhodey says, “Tony, sorry, gotta go. Talk to you later.” A click, and Tony puts down his cellphone, frowning.

His gaze steals over to the liquor cabinet.

 

*

 

“Here again for your daily dose?” Tony asks, straightening from over the holographic screens. “Fine. Okay.”

Loki blinks. “You’re inebriated, Stark.”

“Just a little,” Tony says.

“Well, that won’t do,” Loki murmurs, his hand passing over Tony’s throat, and Tony recoils, as if the muscle memory of being choked is ingrained into him. But Loki doesn’t _squeeze_. His fingers merely ghost up Tony’s neck and up to his chin, and the light-headed drunk feeling fades. “There,” Loki says, satisfied. “Incoherence is massively irritating, you realize. Well. More that usual incoherence.”

“Was that an insult?” Tony says, slightly dazed. “And hey. You’re a bit more, ah, solid.”

“Odin’s magic over me is breaking,” Loki says softly, his hands now finding Tony’s chest. “You placed your new core inside,” he notices. “It shines brighter than it used to.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “The snake still picking at you?”

That hand on his neck again. Threatening, this time.

Tony narrows his eyes. His eyelashes are shuttered, a caught breath in his throat. “Loki,” he manages to say. “Liesmith,” he says next, remembering those old myths. He bares himself, open, unflinching; he tastes Romanoff’s coffee and Barton’s sugar on the roof of his mouth.

“Is that an offer?” Loki says in a soft voice, almost a growl.

“Just shoot yourself up,” Tony says quietly. “Go on.”

(Temp, cop, janitor, old woman, firefighters, kids. A stupid little rhythm in his head.)

Loki siphons off the blue, and Tony concentrates on glowing green eyes as the energy spirals away, and he’s left gasping on the floor, clutching at the ground.

“Hey, shadow man,” he whispers underneath his breath, and he’s not talking to Loki (who is gone, of course).

 _Hey, I’m not drunk_ , Tony realizes, and goes to pop the top off of the scotch bottle, after all.

 

*

 

The bubble bursts, as it should.

Bruce turns Tony over to S.H.I.E.L.D. captivity (Tony has a loose tongue when he’s drunk as shit, and Bruce is one sharp bastard; Loki revives Tony in public because it looks like someone _does_ feel indebted, nevertheless, a fact that Tony finds hilarious as fuck), and Tony’s left cackling at a pissed-off Fury like a wild hyena. Then saying nothing at all.

He knows that it’s going to be over soon.

 

*

 

“Sorry,” is all that Tony says to Natasha, after, a rumble of words; he’d slipped off to order the bots to make breakfast. “Gonna wake up Bruce in a bit. And you can try it out now.” He jerks his thumb over at the nest thing.

She says, “Why are you,” and it’s not a question.

The soft fabric of the nest presses into Tony’s palm when he clenches his hand over it. “Because,” he says simply. He could’ve said it mockingly, because god damn, isn’t it obvious, really, from the way she’d smiled on the balcony. He could’ve said _you two make him happy._ He could’ve said _because you know Bruce as everything he is_ , from monster to man to scientist to that four lettered word ( _l-o-v-e_ spelled from his tongue).

Instead he says, “Because.” A child’s stubborn one-word answer. A billionaire-playboy-philanthropist’s idiotic blessing.

That’s the world rolls, honestly.

(A half-monster encounters Tony Stark, and he’s happy. A green-eyed creature takes everything from Tony Stark, and he’s happy.)

Because, because, because.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> This final pairing of this series is going to be Rhodey/Tony, if anyone's curious. See, look, I've actually decided on a pairing, isn't that neat?


End file.
